


Architect of Decay

by alouettecorone



Series: The Morgue files [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Organised Crime, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alouettecorone/pseuds/alouettecorone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He who rejects change is the architect of decay.</i> These are the hands of a killer.</p><p>(We are not broken. We will not fall.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Architect of Decay

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from Harold Wilson.

“So that closes negotiations with Kirisaki Daichi, Hanamiya-san.” Aida Riko’s voice is flawlessly clipped, just enough dismissal to bite.

Hanamiya can feel the chill through the room – it’s not just her voice, beautifully arctic; she probably lowered the temperature in here, just cold enough to shiver. It’s a good technique – if you can’t even feel your nether regions, what sort of deals can you make? But that’s not important, not with him, because he knows Aida Riko is just not that good. He won’t break, but she will.

He turns his attention back onto the woman in front of him. He can’t keep his eyes off her for a second – she’s learnt a lot in the past year, grown up well, too. Last year she was just that perfect equilibrium of child and woman, innocent loveliness intertwining with adult desire. He counts the ways she has changed; the suit, for one – no more dresses for her, low-cut to show non-existent assets; she’s learnt. Don’t show your goods, or people will assume you’re cheap. Now, it’s all business, white shirt immaculate as her façade, tie lashed securely against pale skin. It’s so lovely, that disparity, a crimson noose mark against her neck. Her black jacket accentuates her posture, back straight and elegant as a blade, and oh, doesn’t she look pretty? Only those coy little clips remain of the girl she once was, pinning her hair back from her face; but they are without doubt as knife-sharp and brittle as the rest of her.

She’s the perfect picture of a Mafia princess; beautiful and lethal, sugar and ice. Hanamiya doesn’t doubt that she could have him killed at a click of her perfectly manicured fingers. If he let her, of course, and certainly not by her own hand; Aida Riko is that ugly phenomenon, the spoilt princess given control by an overindulging father. There’s a reason, after all, why women don’t rule the underworld. No matter how good they look in a suit.

He’s just waiting for her to fall.

But she plays this role so _well_ ; gaze as sharp as a reprimand, perfectly composed in the face of loathing. Ice-cold fingers steepled together, the scarlet clicking of false nails ticking towards death. Her eyes bore into him, and despite himself Hanamiya feel a little discomfited; because my, he’s not seen such darkness for such a long time. Which is not true, in any case; he sees the abyss in every mirror, and he knows it’s gazing back. Besides, he knows it’s just a game, because after all she’s a pretty woman, watching him with the eyes of a hawk, and he’s always had a weakness for steel. Except not really, but there’s something oh so poetic about falling in love with the enemy. And that beautiful curl of her lip, just a little left of a snarl; well, he could surely fall in love with that.

She hates him, of course; after all, it was his massacre that destroyed her precious Iron Heart. What a lie; he was no more stronger than a fluttering bird, pulse crushed in a sticky mess of blood and gore and who knows what else. Even iron bleeds, after all. God, again his thoughts have wandered to that goddamn do-gooder, the most honest man in the business, the whispers say, and that just makes Hanamiya hate him all the more. Because they’re the _Mafia_ , they’re _criminals_ , what does it matter about honesty and honour? Why should this man, this criminal, this killer just like the rest of them, be placed on a pedestal so? 誠凛, Seirin, that’s a lie just like the rest of them; what use is honour among thieves? Why should the devil look after his own? He wonders whether Kiyoshi is even alive now; or if he isn’t, if he can even walk, or if he’s confined to a wheelchair, a hunchbacked fool. He hopes his shot completely severed his tendons, so he’s nothing more than a cripple, his twisted interior exposed to all.

God, Hanamiya loves it. He _destroyed_ the man, even if he didn’t die; because now he’s _worthless_ , because Kiyoshi was only ever a tool, and a broken tool has no use to anyone. And now his boss is crawling right back up to them, because she’s far too weak to do anything on her own. What a beautiful sight, all dolled up for playing house. The consummate actress, stretching the skin of a woman far older than she, eyes dark and lips red; Hanamiya wants to bite those lips right off, wants to draw out that little girl everyone knows she truly is.

But gor now, she needs him. And as loath as he is to admit it, he needs her.

He stands, suit crinkling, and Cheshire-cat smiles. “A pleasure, Aida-san.” He stretches out his hand.

It’s a challenge.

To her credit, her expression does not change. This is nothing like that weak, emotional princess of yesteryear, screaming promises of revenge to the bloody guns. She takes his hand, fingers cold and nails sharp, and smiles right back at him, lips a slash of red on her face. She’s changed so much, this girl. He can admit at least that.

“Of course.” There’s nothing in the touch; no hatred, no loathing – just a barren playing field.

Suddenly, Hanamiya wonders if he’s underestimated her.

Her hands are icy, but even he can feel the calluses; these are not the hands of a pampered princess.

These are the hands of a killer.

He almost jolts back to the sound of a soft, sardonic chuckle, just this side of amusement.

“If you would let go of my hand now, Hanamiya-san.” God! He curses his moment of distraction, of weakness; her lips are lifting in a mocking smile, and he knows he’s just capitulated to her, if only for a second. He promises he won’t give her that pleasure again.

But of course, she seizes his momentary failing, a smooth, faultless shift in the power play.

“If I could have the pleasure of accompanying you out.” It’s a statement, not a request, and Hanamiya suddenly wants to _crush_ her for her insolence. She does not wait for him, but strides towards the door, heels clicking as purposefully as a declaration of war.

He can do nothing but tumble after her, because this wasn’t right, this wasn’t in his calculations – he was supposed to have broken her, last year, he knows he broke her, because if the desperation and the screaming and the tears wasn’t breaking, he doesn’t know what is. He left her to drown in the blood of her family, and she was supposed to have suffocated in the cloying, coppery chaos. She wasn’t supposed to emerge like a phoenix from the blood-red flame, she wasn’t supposed to harden like ice in the fire (and oh, isn’t that a lovely little puzzle, little Aida Riko.)

She’s as beautiful as she is cold, high heels like ice shards on the marbled floors.

But he can’t show weakness, not now, not in the very lair of the beast. He catches up with her easily, long legs meeting her step, but they both know who’s on top now. Together they walk the halls of her beautiful marble fortress, and even Hanamiya, who usually baits and mocks and sneers at the futile attempts to wipe these palaces bloodless (because wasn’t this all bought on blood money, from drugs to guns to whores?) can do nothing but follow silently in her footsteps. There is something sacred about this place; perhaps it is how they have not even tried to hide the massacre that destroyed Seirin nary a year ago. He fancies that he can smell the blood, rich strands amongst the sterile white noise, and he knows Aida can feel it too, these corridors where he ruined her.

He wonders how she can stand to live here, knowing how much blood was spilt. But he can’t afford to underestimate her, not anymore; she might be broken, but sharp edges are just as dangerous.

And perhaps there’s another reason for that. He has known of many places corrupted with blood and then cleansed, too.

The people of this world are entirely too fond of their petty feuds, cycles of revenge to baptise the world in blood.

He has fallen behind a little, now, because there’s nothing quite like watching the writhe and the flex of a beautiful woman. Except he would never say that, because he knows he’s too far above that, too detached to allow anything like _aesthetics_ to get in the way of power. No, he does it because it has always been a fault of women, to put too much in store in the ways of men; he does it to perturb Aida, to put her down, to show her what she really is – a sex object, no less of a prostitute than those selling their bodies on the street.

But Aida never slows down, the snapping of heels never stopping to the pulse of her spine. She’s a strong one, this woman; but then again, they’re all the more fun to break.

He does not think about how he’s come to view this woman – god, it’s even infecting his thoughts now, because she’s not a woman, she’s a girl, of course, _of course_ – from checkmate to challenge, because it’s not worth considering – he has only had to take a step back to reconsider his vantage point, and now he’s armed with all the information he needs.

She may be as sharp as a knife, but even iron can bleed. Kiyoshi proved that oh so wonderfully.

He will never reject change, but he glories in the architecture of decay.

He steps up just a little quicker, his tread not quite matching Aida’s, but just behind, until he’s sprawled long and lithe against her back. She does not react, and oh, he has to admire her for not losing her nerve even when he’s practically rubbing against her, each step a jolt, a challenge. He can see the smooth contour of her neck disappearing beneath her collar, rising and falling with each breath, the perfect line of hazel hair – he remembers when it was an elegant twist of chestnut tresses, remembers the russet locks falling to the ground as the Mafia princess became a queen. Now her hairline bites into her pale neck, boy-short; and although it should make her look younger, more vulnerable, cancer-brittle, it does nought but steel her. She has lost the whimsy of childhood and stepped into the mantle of womanhood, at least on the outside.

The wisps of hair caress her skin, and oh yes, didn’t she promise that she wouldn’t cut it until Seirin became the foremost crime cartel in the area? It makes him want to reach out and tug at it, to snip it all off, just to show how foolish her dream was, how easily it could, and will, be lost. Just like scissors slicing through hair.

He exhales, a whisper against her skin; he expects her to squirm, but suddenly it’s his hair on end. He steps back and turns around slowly.

Her men are watching. They filter silently onto the stairs, nary a rustle among them. A murder of black crows, armed to the very feather; a bouquet of white, red, black, congratulating you on your imminent demise. He remembers these white halls, of course; the velvet sweep of debutantes, the chiming of champagne glasses not quite hiding the rattle of guns. Pretty Aida Riko all dolled up for the ball; she had been so beautiful, so full of life, eyes dancing to the one-step two-step sway of the waltz. Of course he’d danced with her; she was a Mafia princess, after all, and he a Mafia don. There had been no words but the repartee of their feet, and Hanamiya had left safe in the presumption of spoilt luxury, of a callow youth playing at being a woman. Except this time the bowers are decked with guns and the balconies with blood, and the green girl has transformed into a woman in white. There is no laughing or joking, no tripping over the light fantastic nor even the merest façade of civilisation; the halls ring silence, and the only dance is this prelude to madness. The rhythmic click of shoes taps out the beat, and he’s the one dancing to her tune.

Even though they all know he’s the one caught in her web, their eyes follow his every move, each flicker a threat. He does not allow himself to be disconcerted. They are only men, he tells himself. And she is only a girl. Genius or prodigy, they are worth nothing once broken.

He wonders briefly how she controls them, reining in wolves itching for the kill, and swiftly comes to that open secret of a conclusion: for of course, men are men, and they have their needs.

He’s just not sure which one of those needs she’s fulfilling for them.

So he only smirks, and draws back from their princess. They’ve all grown, he thinks; he remembers Hyuuga, last year, screaming at him right along with his princess, accusing him of things Hanamiya couldn’t _possibly_ have done, because he’d never stoop to consorting with _mercenaries_ , working amongst them, of all things. You, the boy had snarled, rage impotent, _you_. Of course, he had replied, so, so amused; what proof do you have? But of course there was nothing, because Hanamiya was far better than that, so the boy slunk right back into whatever whorehole he had tumbled out of.

And that had been that.

Except it hadn’t, because Hyuuga is standing there watching him, judging him, silent in his fury, and oh, isn’t that just so exciting? Because the boy had so much _potential_ , and now it’s just burning to explode. He looks the same, but once, he would’ve thrown himself over the stairs to tear through Hanamiya. He is perfectly composed, now, all magnetic coils around an electric core. He can _see_ the bristling spine, the rising hackles, except they are nothing but a suggestion, a threat of exactly what he can do to him. And wouldn’t Hanamiya like to see _that_ fallout.

And there, on that very top balcony, what poetic justice! The Eagle’s eye, unblinking. Shun Izuki is as haughty and indifferent as a bird, except that’s not really him, because Hanamiya knows what he can do. He has seen bullet howls of rage shred through soldiers like tattered paper chains, the eagle’s hooked beak tearing to bone. There are no retorts cracking across his tongue; he is as silent as a statue, a gargoyle far above, gurgling blood and bullets. He has matured, as they all have, hair kissing his eyes; but there is a wildness about him, swathed in strategy. Izuki had never been a genius, nothing like the monsters of Teikou, or the Crownless Generals. There was a reason why they left him alone. But he has grown dangerous, grown unchecked, and Hanamiya is reminded again of what runts can develop in to. He was foolish, to not wipe out this fledging group when he had the chance. But there’s no point crying over spilt milk; he will only have to pick up the pieces, and that should be easy enough to do.

This whole family is broken, shards of decay; but they watch him like they’re whole, a cracked diamond taped together. Crouched on the stairs is the joker, the jack-of-all-trades, Koganei; he is mediocre, on the surface, master of all and nothing. But Hanamiya keeps one ear on the ground, and his little birds have told him of a _maneki neko_ , the hooked lip drawing a cat-faced grin. That Cheshire-cat smile the last thing they see before the gape of darkness, before the beckoning man and his tools come out to play. Mitobe Rinnosuke comes up behind him, hushed muscle and a shield of steel; there is a silent threat to all of them, cold as their snow queen. _We will break you, architect of decay._

Hanamiya turns back to face Aida Riko. She is not smiling, not quite; but there is a feral challenge in her eyes. _This is what you did to us. This is what we have become_.

He can do nothing but sneer right back. He was stupid, to have gone in without backup; this family may be small, but they’re sly and shrewd as a bird. They know he could never have gone in with his men if they asked him not to; they have played their weaknesses so well it’s become their strength. Because this game they play is not the one the public see, armoured flanks smashing into soldiers, but a psychological chessboard – and to bring twice as many players onto the board as the opponent had, surely that’s not sportsmanship? He is not too troubled – he has several aces up his sleeve, after all. For one, the king of hearts, his suicide king. Kentaro reads his mind so _well_ ; he knows that if they are to attack, then they will die as surely as he will. And they know this, as well; because, well, he _is_ the Bad Boy, after all. He has his ways.

But they’ve startled him, that’s all. They would’ve been better off lying low, staying broken; because now they’ve risen in his esteem, he will do all he can to hammer them down. A broken jewel is worth nothing more than glass; no matter what they are, who they’ve become, he will crush them.Oh, how he loves this game.

She stretches a hand towards him, as if _he_ is the woman, and god that makes him mad. He knows what she’s implying, and he will cut that hand off, he swears, for making such a fool out of him. He will rip out each nail, paint them red with true blood; he will break each joint, he will smash each bone.

But he cannot snub her, not now, so he allows her to lead him out. They truly are a sight; black heels clicking across the marble floor, her hand cool and callused in his. He is not fool enough to try anything, but the hard skin is a threat – he is joining the dots, now; whispered reports of a lovely woman and her beautiful kills, white gloves discarded at every crime scene. This princess is a killer, and he will not be her next victim.

Her men watch them as they leave. They do not make a move, but this is not surrender; this is a foolish show of loyalty, of trust. They believe her strong enough to protect herself, even outside the confines of her palace prison – yet Hanamiya could prove them wrong, so wrong, in just an instant, in the snap of a finger, in the click of a gun.

But he won’t. He knows the value of intentional loss; there is no glory in the immediate victory. Seirin will lose by itself, and they all know it.

There’s no point making it easy for them, though. The night air bites as cold as Aida’s eyes, and he finds himself reaching for his cards.

“Although we have had our… differences,” he smiles, slicking like blood across the floor. “I would like to extend the hand of friendship to you, Aida-san. To put aside our past, and turn to the future.” He bends down, his lips brushing her fingertips. He can taste the blood on her hands; the ice blossoms through his lips, knife cold. This is his flower queen; the offer of alliance to an interminable adversary. He has played his queen of clubs, and he stares up through his eyelashes to scrutinise her next move.

She throws down her queen of spades. Black lady, cold as ice; he straightens, and smiles. It’s a threat and a guarantee all in one; this dangerous game, it will be the end of her. He has destroyed her; he would do it again. “Is that a no?”

She does not falter. There is no blink, no tick; is this a bluff? Or the real thing? Aida Riko is a beautiful woman, and she plays this wonderfully well.

“I,” she states, her voice diamond dust in the cold night air, “will consider it.”

Ah, a postponement. Never mind; he cannot wait to get back in the game.

“Then until next time.” He bows to her once more, and makes to leave. This game may not have followed perfectly in the footsteps he laid for it, but he is pleased with the results. It has been stalemate for too long; this can only bring new blood into the game, new blood to spill and shed and paint their halls red. Hanamiya has no doubt that Aida will never accept his proposal; because however much she may seem to have changed, she is still that pitiful, irrational girl at heart. No man, much less a woman, can step into maturity so swiftly; she wears an iron mask, and iron rusts, rots, breaks. He is looking forward to this, he realises; their despair will be all the more sweet.

But then there is the click of wheels against stone, and Hanamiya is frozen. It isn’t – it can’t be –

A wheelchair appears, all sleek silver and black. Kiyoshi Teppei looks down at him.

This man, Hanamiya thinks, this man should be _dead_. Kiyoshi Teppei is a _ghost_ , a nonentity, he was _broken_ , screaming death on the bloodstained floor. Except he isn’t, because who else could that be? Their gazes are locked, a song of ice and fire, and Hanamiya can feel it in his bones – someone is going to snap, and he doesn’t know who it will be. Kiyoshi looks the same, eyebrows snarling across his forehead, smile stapled firmly in place; he should seem ridiculous, black suit in a wheelchair, tie as red as his shattered knee. Yet there is something in there that makes it not a joke, but a threat, and Hanamiya shouldn’t feel this cold, because Kiyoshi is a cripple, he cannot stand, much less walk – except suddenly, he realises what it is.

These are not the eyes of a broken man. These are not the hands of a princess. They are all one thing, and one thing only – a promise of vengeance. Because even though it was he that destroyed the other, last time, suddenly they’re on even ground, despite the wheelchair, despite the pain.

God, he cries, _god_ , she’s brilliant; she’s made her broken tool into her greatest weapon

And then slowly, ever so slowly –

 _– No,_ Hanamiya grits out, _no, no, **no**_ –

– Kiyoshi Teppei unfolds, rising up from his wheelchair like Neptune from the waves. Hanamiya can’t say anything, can’t see anything – because he _knows_ what he did, what his hitman did, he knows the snapping of bone and bullets through flesh. This man should not be able to stand, should not be able to turn, should not be able to walk forward and gaze at him with eyes like diamonds, like bullets, like code.

This is a message, knocking white-hot against the night sky: _we are not broken. We will not fall_.

“Perhaps,” Aida’s voice snaps through the tension, winter’s chill biting to the bone, “You should leave now.”

And _fuck_ , he forgot about her, this _stupid_ bitch, forgot about them all, and that was stupid, so stupid; this goddamn Seirin, unravelling his plans in a pool of blood-soaked yarn. He won’t forget them, won’t let them go – the rage washes over him, roars at him, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s lunging for her breath, throat mottling beautifully in his hands. He cannot hear anything over the war-drum beat, hammering, gun-metal grey, in his head. She will _pay_ for this, this insolent child; he has whole armies at his command, and he will destroy her again.

“You,” he spits, “ _You._ ”

There is silence, and all of a sudden her smile is a knife edge in the darkness, pushing against his spine. The blood is trickling through his veins now, heart constricted in terror. _God_ , why, where, _where_ was that blade, where did she conceal it, why aren’t his men coming, why are they allowing this, can’t they _see_ –

Oh. _Oh_. That’s beautiful. Her arms threaded beneath his jacket, a single stiletto to the back now; careful, my girl, don’t let your hand slip. Because if you do, you won’t kill them, and that’s no use now, is it? You’ll just cut that lifeline, that electric filament stretching from skull to spine; you’ll slit that beautiful back, scratch it right open. You will cripple them, break them – and isn’t that a fate worse than death?

“ _Yes_ ,” she whispers. “ _Yes, me._ ”

And suddenly, maybe it’s him that’s been rejecting this all the time, who’s tried to play the girl – no, woman – like an old _shamisen_. Except now she’s sharper, brighter, brilliantly changed, and truly he is the architect of decay. Because he destroyed this woman, he sees it now, but then she remade herself infinitely more beautiful and deadly than before.

And now her hand is on his arm, a vice he cannot escape; her knife is at his back, and she smiles up at him, wicked and naïve, radiant as a blood-stained blade.

 _“Kiss me, Bad Boy, architect of decay.”_


End file.
